Weekends at France's Manor
by HidingFromTheSpotlight
Summary: The nations are at France's manor for a three-day meeting. Russia takes the chance to take a long, hot bath and warm his frostbitten flesh. He falls asleep, and dreams of people he has lost, one way or another. Brief China/Russia and Russia/America.


**HFTS: So. I kinda maybe decided to start reading/watching Hetalia. And then when I got told I couldn't because it used to much data I started reading fanfiction. And this kinda dug at me until I couldn't help myself. So, long story short: I wrote a little drabble. If I get hit my the muses again I might make it into a little series. Probably won't though because I have way too much stuff to do. Then again, I like to procrastinate by writing new stories. So who knows? Anyway, I'm sorry if the characterisation is a little weird (especially for Belarus but it's a dream sequence). I've also decided that Russia is adorable (even though he's kind of psychotic) and that I love him. Like a mother, I mean. I'm rambling, aren't I?**

**I kind of intended this to be a lot sadder, but it didn't work that way. I'm also really bad at romance. I'm sorry. **

**Disclaimer: No, I don't own Hetalia.**

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Let A Little Sunlight Into Your Heart

Russia allowed a contented sigh to slip from his lips as he slid into the bathtub. The three-day meeting in France was off to a bumpy start, and it was only the first day! Britain seemed hell-bent on causing WW3, if his actions were anything to go by, and Germany had nearly given himself a heart attack trying to keep things under control. On the other hand, France had invited them to stay at his massive manor, just a few miles outside of Paris. The rooms were lavishly decorated, with four-poster beds and an ensuite bathroom. Russia had been delighted to find the large spa-bath, and had wasted no time filling it to the brim with hot water and perfumed bubble mixture. Now he relaxed, letting the warm water envelop him like a mother's tender embrace. He stared up at the ceiling, his eyes tracing the patterned tiles. Slowly, his frostbitten skin flooded with heat. He pressed his fingers to his fingers to his throat, waiting.

_Da-dum. Da-dum. Da-dum._

A small smile spread across his face as he felt it. That beautiful rhythm. So soft. So simple. It meant so many things, but mostly it meant _life_. It was the sign you were alive.

Alive. The word sounded so foreign to him now. Not just foreign, but sad too. Being alive meant pain and suffering. Being alive meant losing everything you loved. Being alive meant being alone. A long time ago, Russia had realised it wasn't worth the constant heartache. So he had walked out into a snowstorm and allowed its icy tendril to reach deep within him. It had frozen him to the core. He was a nation, it wouldn't kill him. Not permanently, at least. And the numbness it brought to him was utter bliss. An escape from the pain of living. Not quite dead, but not really alive either. There were times, however, when his desire for heat seduced him, drew him from his chilling slumber. Just as it had done now. He sank further into the water, grinning as his toes peeped out at the edge of the tub. He wriggled them, enjoying the way they flushed a deep pink. Normally his extremities were tinged blue, and it was a nice change.

Sleep nipped at his eyelids with a vengeance. He was so tired, and this bath was so comfortable and warm. Perhaps if he slept here, with the bubbles covering him like a blanket, he would not have the nightmares that clawed at his heart and mind in the night. The demons could not get him here; they would not think to look. It was safe. He felt safe. "_Yes_," a soft voice whispered, "_got to sleep, Ivan. I will watch over you. Sleep. Nothing bad will happen_."

* * *

_Ivan smiled, watching as his sisters danced around the hall. It was good to hear them laugh again. The pair twirled towards him, theirs dresses sparkling like starlight. They beckoned him to join them, grabbing his hands and pulling him into the centre of the room. Belarus giggled and it sounded like the tinkling of tiny bells. Russia let go of their hands, watching the girls dance away, bittersweet sorrow pecking at his heart like a ravenous bird. Before he could dwell on the emotion, a bouquet of sunflowers was pushed into his arms. The dance hall melted away, replaced by a forest of bamboo. China stood before him, smiling mysteriously. His fingers slid under Russia's chin, pulling him closer. Ivan could only watch, eyes wide, as their lips brushed together. Short. Sweet. A hint of spices. His lips felt like they had been electrified._

_Ivan blinked as people surged past, their voices mingling together in a symphony of peace and change. China was gone. He followed the group as they marched through the snow-covered streets. This was Saint Petersburg, he thought dully. They were nearing the Winter Palace. Russia's mind registered that there was a reason he should stop, that his footsteps should grind to a halt, but what that reason actually was eluded him. A figure appeared; foul, twisted, demonic. A gun was clutched in its hands. Russia stared ahead, moving forwards even though his mind was screaming for him to turn around. Bullets flew, embedding themselves into soft, mortal flesh. People fell, dead. Women and children screamed as more gunshots echoed through the street. Ivan was rooted to the spot, his eyes alight with horror. He was killing his own people. _He_ was _killing_ his own _people_._

_The world spun around him, twisting and turning. He was falling. His back hit something, a wall perhaps, and there was pressure at his throat. He opened his eyes, faced with an angry America. There was hatred in those eyes, those eyes that Ivan could stare at forever and be happy. But there was something else as well. Something primal. Lust. America leaned closer, his breath hitting Russia's neck. "You make me sick," America hissed._

"_Likewise, _Comrade_," Russia spat, though he didn't mean it._

_America leaned closer, curling his head into Ivan's neck. "Why can't I love you?" he whispered hoarsely. _

"_Because I am not worth it."_

_Alfred looked up at him in surprise, removing his forearm from the other man's windpipe. "Ivan, how could you say that?"_

_He couldn't look at him. It hurt too much to look into those eyes. That face. His breathing hitched as he thought about what he had to do. He had to say it. "I cannot see you anymore. I'm sorry."_

"_Why?"_

"_It is what is demanded of me. I cannot fail my new boss," Russia mumbled._

"_You're giving up? You're giving up _us_ just 'cause some stupid commie told you to?!" Alfred yelled. There was hurt in his eyes, and pain. Ivan couldn't look at him. If he did, he would take it all back. And his new boss had told him very seriously what would happen if he didn't go through with it. He couldn't fail._

"_I am sorry, Alfred. I wish… I wish things didn't have to be this way."_

"_You'll be wishing we never met when I'm through with you!" America growled through gritted teeth, storming away without even a backwards glance. Russia felt his heart shatter into a million tiny pieces. He wiped away the tears that stung the corners of his eyes, and left. He couldn't look back. The ghost of kisses long past fluttered at his lips and his neck, reminding him of what he had just thrown away. The memories of fights, verbal and physical, that lead into blissful, adrenaline fuelled love-making where they whispered "I hate you" and "I love you" in the same breath, howled down his spine. It was all gone now. They could never go back._

"_Ivan! Ivan!"_

* * *

"Ivan! Ivan!" France screeched, trying to tug the lager man from under the water. "Ivan, please wake up!"

Russia bolted awake, coughing violently as bath water was ejected from his lungs. He clutched at the side of the tub, gulping down breaths of oxygen. France rubbed his back, shaking and spouting soothing phrases in French. Ivan's head swam with fractured memories, the remnants of his dreaming. Finally, when he felt he could stand without keeling over, Ivan pulled himself out of the bath, accepting the towel Francis handed him. He leaned back against the cool tile wall, letting his chin rest against his chest. "Eбать! Ебать!"

"Are you alright, _mon cher_?" France whispered, cupping Russia's face. "What happened?"

"I…fell asleep," Ivan murmured.

"Are you okay? I should call a doctor."

"No. I am fine," the Russian said, more forcefully than he had meant. He tried to smile reassuringly, but it felt more like his face was cracking in two. "It is nothing. No worry, _da_?"

"You were under water! _Drowning_! I'm pretty sure that's something to worry about," France frowned. He tugged the Russian into the bedroom, muttering under his breath. "Here, sit on the bed. I'm gonna get Arthur."

"That is not necessary," Russia replied.

"Yes, it is! I am your host, your _friend_, I'm supposed to look after you, _âne_."

Russia looked up sharply. "You- You are my… friend?" he asked cautiously.

France regarded him with a withering look that most certainly said 'yes, of course I am, dumbass,' in very loud French. "Wait here. I'll get Arthur."

Russia nodded slightly, knowing better than to argue. He supposed the blond nation really was the big brother in this messed up family of nations. When he wasn't groping them of course. A small smile decorated his lips as he thought over France's words. Something spread through his chest, like hot bathwater, and curled around his heart. The poor, battered organ beat out a soft, happy rhythm, almost purring at the feeling. It felt wonderful. An internal flame to warm him even in the most frigid winters. Ivan crawled under his covers with his hands curled over his chest, and closed his eyes with a smile. By the time Britain and France came back, he was fast asleep.

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**HFTS: I'm also sorry if the translations are off. I was using Google Translate... Anyway, Ivan basically says f*ck twice and Francis calls him an ass (I was going to use stupid head, but I didn't like the way it translated). If you see any mistakes, tell me and I'll love you forever!**


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